


In My Blood

by The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff



Series: Fire-verse [3]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Healing, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2019-12-26 02:40:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18274133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff/pseuds/The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff
Summary: A year after the magic is drained from Hampshire, Baz & Fiona travel to the Grimms' home in Yorkshire for Christmas. When tensions rise, Baz & Malcolm must either confront old wounds in order to move forward, or let their relationship completely fall apart.Set on the same timeline as my other fics, but can probably be read on its own. If you do want to read the others first to understand some of my references,A Pair of Splendid Moronscomes first, thenMerry Gentlemen.currently on hiatus (it's temporary, I assure you). thanks so much for your patience 💜💜💜





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! It's me, Ashley, here posting this now because I have no self control. I've been trying to hold off & _wait_ till I had more written, but I am, as Baz would say, a constant disappointment to myself. So! Here's a long expository chapter. As for the rest - I've got a lot written for later chapters, but not what happens right after this. I'll try to update in a timely fashion!

**Monday, 19th December, 2016**

 

**BAZ**

 

“Oh, don't look so glum, Basil.”

I look at Fiona from the passenger seat. (She's finally started letting me up here again, although she can't seem to keep herself from making some sort of numpty comment any time we drive together.)

I say, “Do I?”

She scoffs & I can practically hear her eyes roll. I ignore her so she scoffs again. “Basil. If this is about your father-,”

“Of _course_ it is.”

“Have you spoken to him at all? Since you moved out?”

“Here & there. Mostly about my studies.” He doesn't mention Simon when we speak, so I never do, either.

“Are you worried he doesn't like Snow? Because I can assure you your father likes him much better since he killed the Mage.”

“Simon isn't a woman,” I say.

“Way to point out the obvious, Basil.”

I sigh. I try not to worry about what my father thinks. It works, most of the time, when he isn't right there in front of me.

I say, “You know what I mean.”

“Well, Malcolm's a bit of a tit, to be sure. But he loves you.”

“I know.” I've never doubted _that_ . But I don't like being a... _disappointment._ And I don't know if I can change his mind. If I'm honest, I'm not sure I want to put in the effort.

I say, “Give us a fag?”

Fiona rolls her eyes again. She says, “Jesus Christ, Baz, do you have a death wish?” but she fishes a pack of cigarettes out of her jacket pocket & tosses them at me anyway. I light one with my wand, breathe in the smoke. It reminds me of Simon's scent, before. The thought warms my chest. Or maybe that's just the fag.

“Better make it last; that’s all you’re getting.”

I hand the pack back to her after I've slipped a few while she wasn't looking. “I know, I know. You aren’t here to enable my self-destructive habits.”

“That's right, boyo. And you're losing your touch if you think I didn’t notice what you just did, you manipulative shit. Love's turned you _soft_.”

I don't answer, just blow smoke in her direction.

 

>>>

 

It takes us nearly four hours to get to Yorkshire, which is a considerably long time to be in an enclosed space with Fiona. ( **Time flies** doesn’t work. Neither of us are exactly _thrilled_ to be spending a week here. Honestly I think she's only coming for me. Moral support, perhaps.)(Her speeding helps, but only a bit.)

I don’t really remember it, the house in Yorkshire. When my father made to move with Daphne & the children he told me he hadn’t been back there since... _before_. It seemed excessive, moving this far north, but Daphne has family up here, I think. And my father’s company has an office in Leeds. I do wonder how long they’re planning to stay, especially with Mordelia starting at Watford in a few years.

I also wonder what would happen if the magic ever returns to Hampshire. Bunce thinks it must, someday. I don’t know; that seems wishful thinking on her part. She says I’m a pessimist. (She isn’t wrong.) Still... I hope she’s right. (Though I'd never tell her so.) The house in Hampshire is - _was -_ pure Pitch. I doubt I’d ever actually want to live there again, but there are things I’d like to _do_ there, if I ever get the chance.

The Yorkshire house isn’t so big as the one in Hampshire, but it’s still a large Victorian. (If Snow were here, he’d call it bloody Gothic, the dolt.)

A part of me wishes he _were_ here. Yet another is glad he isn’t. We’ve talked about it, of course. Obviously he’ll have to face my family eventually if we’re going to be together long-term. Now, though... we've decided it’s too soon. The wound left by what happened last Christmas is still too fresh. Father hasn't _said_ so, exactly. But.

When we pull into the drive, it's nearly dinnertime. We got a late start. Fiona overslept & I, well. I was at Simon's last night. Might be I overslept, too.

Daphne emerges from the house while we're unloading the car; probably she heard Fiona kicking up the gravel. She has a smile on her face & the baby on her hip. Or _toddler_ , rather; he's grown. And _wiggly._

“You're just in time for dinner,” she says as she adjusts my brother on her hip, pulls his hand away from her earring. She puts her free arm around me & reaches up to kiss my cheek. (I don't mind; I bend for her.) “Good to see you, Basil,” she says, & I think she actually means it. Daphne's a lovely woman, really.

My brother's staring at me. Daphne takes his hand & waves it at me, which is unnecessary. “Look who it is, Ollie” she says to him, talking in that high-pitched voice all mothers seem to develop once they've given birth. I resist the urge to cringe. “Say _hi Baz_.”

Oliver says, “ _Ba_.”

“Here, Basil, take your brother for me,” Daphne says, & I don't have time to protest because she's just thrust him on me. “I'll get your father & have him help with your things.”

“Right,” I say. Oliver's just smiling at me as I hold him at arm's length. Crowley.

Fiona smirks at me as she stomps past, her bag over her shoulder. “Shut it,” I say, & I adjust my brother on my hip & follow them into the house.

He says, “ _Ba_.”

“ _Baz_ ,” I tell him.

“ _Ba_.” Crowley’s sake.

“ _Baz,_ ” I say. “You're so close. _Baz_.” I emphasize the “z”. That just makes him giggle.

He tangles a hand in my hair. “ _Ba_.”

I sigh. “I suppose that's close enough.”

“Oh, Oliver, _stop_ pulling your brother's hair,” Daphne says as she comes back into the entryway. She holds her arms out. “Here, love,” she says, & I'm honestly not sure which of us she's talking to.

I extricate his hand from my hair & hand him over carefully. Daphne takes him easily, a born mother. It hurts, sometimes, to watch her with my siblings.

“You won’t break him,” my stepmother says to me with a smile. “He’s hardier than he looks.”

“Basilton.” Father’s come up behind her. My stomach roils, but I nod in his direction.

“Father,” I say.

My father doesn't hug; he shakes hands & claps shoulders.

“You look different, Basil,” he says.

I think _, Yes Father, I've lost my virginity since last you saw me. And had a taste of human blood._

I say, “A good different, I hope.”

“You look well,” he says, and I can't tell if it's just a pleasantry or the truth. “Come help me with your things.”

“Right,” I say, & I turn around to follow him back outside.

“How are your studies coming along, Basil?” Father asks as we walk. “You’re doing well I trust.”

“Yes,” I say. “Very.” It’s true; I’ve top marks in all my courses.

“And are you still considering a career in teaching?”

“Yes,” I say again.

We stop in the drive next to my trunk & violin case. (I could’ve gotten both on my own.) There’s a tin of biscuits on top of my trunk that Simon sent along with me. I’ve no idea how I’m going to give them to my parents, but Simon insisted. (“It’s the least I can do. I stole their magic.”)

Father notices it but doesn’t say anything. He turns to me & takes me by the shoulders. It startles me, but I don’t flinch.

He says, “That would make your mother very proud,” and I know he isn’t talking about Daphne. I feel a pinprick of pain, right in the center of my chest, & in the corner of my eyes, at the back of my throat. I won’t cry. I push it down, the pain, & nod at him.

Father smiles a little, his guard coming down. “And me. It’d make me proud, too.”

I don’t know what to say. Something, preferably.

"Of course, Father," I manage. He claps me on the shoulder.

 

>>>

 

Daphne's made shepherd's pie for dinner.

It's good, but it isn't Simon's cooking.

Father gives me a _look_ of sorts (I can’t read it under his usual air of boredom. Confused, maybe.) when I take full servings of everything - pie, green beans, salad. I don't usually eat full helpings at the table with everyone else, but I've gotten pretty good at using that robot spell on my fangs in the last few months. I take a few bites to coax them out, then excuse myself to the corridor so I can cast in private.

The spell hides my fangs, but not the lisp that comes along with them.

“It's very good,” I tell Daphne once I've had a few more bites.

She smiles warmly at me. I don't think she's ever thought it necessary that I eat away from everyone else, but she's never asked questions. She's never taken offense. She says, “Thank you, Basil,” and touches my arm (I'm sat next to her) before she goes back to her own food.

Daphne really is a lovely woman. I don’t mind saying.

Oliver says, “ _BA!_ ” and slams his little fist enthusiastically into his helping of shepherd's pie. It scares the hell out of me. _Terrible twos, indeed._

“You never eat with us,” Mordelia says. She's sitting across from me, cocking an eyebrow at me. Crowley, I hope she didn't learn that from me. It's not _cute._

I say, “Don't be ridiculous, Mordelia. Of course I do.”

She gestures at my full plate. “Not like _that_ ,” she says.

Crowley's sake. I don't even know if the children _know_ what I am. How do you tell a child that their brother's a monster? How do you _not_ tell them? How do you ensure they don't let something slip? (A spell, maybe. If they do know, my father would've taken every precaution.)(It's a wonder people don't know already, what with my being there in the nursery that day. All the press. I don't know, maybe they _do_ know & they're just too afraid of my father to broach the subject.)

“I'm _hungry_ ,” I say, & I shovel a large bite into my mouth. My fork clatters against my invisible fangs.

The twins, Emilia & Ophelia, are watching me, too. _Giggling._

“Girls, that's enough,” Father says. “Let your brother eat in peace.”

Things are quiet for a moment, awkward. I don't rightly know what to talk about here.

Then Daphne says, “How’s Simon, Basil?”

I’ve imagined it, probably, but it feels like the air’s been sucked from the room. I set down my fork, full with another bite of shepherd’s pie. Daphne’s looking at me, smiling. She’s just being polite, making small talk. Or maybe she’s genuinely curious, I don’t know. I’ve not explicitly told any of them - save Fiona - that Simon is my boyfriend. Daphne _knows_ , of course, but I think she’s waiting for me to say so. And my father, well.

When I look up at him, he’s stopped chewing. It’s the only sign of discomfort he shows. After a moment he moves some food around his plate & takes another bite. He doesn’t look at me.

There’s a lump that’s risen in my throat. I force it down.

“Well,” I say. “Very well, thank you.” I don’t elaborate. Daphne must get the hint because she tries to strike up a conversation with Fiona instead.

I sit back in my chair & wipe my mouth with my cloth napkin, just for something to do.

I’m not so hungry anymore.

 

>>>

 

I head out into the woods after nightfall.

It’s been some time since I’ve had anything other than pig’s blood from the butcher’s. Simon keeps it stocked for me at his, & I keep some at Fiona’s now, too. I still can’t heat it properly with magic without it clotting, so I got myself a sieve to keep at Fiona’s, too. I think I’ve grown used to it; I can’t rightly remember the last time I actually went out hunting.

Well, there’s no pig’s blood for me here. Keeping blood in the freezer would equate to acknowledging that there’s a vampire in the house. And we can’t have that.

I could use a hunting spell - it's bloody _cold_ out here - but I don't want to return to the house until there's a good chance everyone else is in bed. I've had enough awkward conversation & awkward silence for one day.

Instead, I walk through the wood & try to _listen_ , but I can't hear anything over my own thoughts.

Maybe I should take a leaf out of Simon’s book & _try not to think about it._

I take a deep breath, in through my nose & out through my mouth, then sniff at the air. There are deer nearby.

It doesn't take me long to find one, a doe. I keep her still with magic, make sure she doesn't have a fawn nearby. She doesn't.

I take her quickly. I don't like to cause undue suffering.

It's been too long since I've hunted. I've nearly forgotten the rush of fresh blood into my mouth, the rush of _power._ Blood's much better, fresh.

_The last time I had fresh blood was…_

Well. In September. And nothing will ever compare to the taste of that.

I try not to think about it.

 

>>>

 

I take advantage of the bathtub.

It's been a long time since I've had a good long soak. Simon & Bunce don't have a tub at their flat, & neither does Fiona. It's barbaric.

I fill it with Epsom salts & oils of cedar & bergamot. Stress relief. _Normal_ magic.

I tie my hair back so I can sink into the water as far as possible without getting it wet, & then I do. Sink into the water, I mean. I actually groan audibly as the water laps hot around me.

My eyes slip closed & I just _rest._

The term wasn’t long, & it wasn’t difficult, not truly. But I’m taking more classes than I need to (if I’m to be a professor, I’ll need a PhD. I want to get the easy courses out of the way as quickly as possible) & the last time I can remember myself truly resting was back in September. With Simon, that week spent alone in his flat. We slept late, & were lazy, & just spent the time _learning_ about each other, how our bodies worked together. It’s the best holiday I can remember, & we didn’t even _go_ anywhere, not unless you count the countryside.

I’ve heard from Simon today, but only in texts. He keeps sending me links to stupid YouTube videos. I think he thinks they’ll make me laugh. (Some of them do.)

My thoughts start to wander as my muscles loosen. I think about Simon - his curls, his tawny skin, his moles. His smile. The way he kisses me, how there’s so much _meaning_ in it. All the ways we’ve made love in the months since we’ve been sleeping together. The way he _growls_ when he comes.

I reach down into the water & wrap a hand around myself, bring myself off to thoughts of _Simon._

 

>>>

 

I pull on a pair of my flannel pyjama bottoms & a jumper of Simon's he gave me back in the autumn. Well. He didn't _give_ it to me, not exactly. I wore it once & didn't give it back. It's maroon, & ill-fitting, & probably made of polyester or some other abomination. But it smells like him. Like flour & sex & his stupid cheap shampoo. _Home._

I'm hoping it'll help me sleep.

I take Simon's biscuit tin & set in on the bedside table (maybe I'll give it to Daphne tomorrow). Then I light a fire in the grate & crawl into bed.

I'm pointedly trying _not_ to think of how much I don't want to be here.

I've a book on my bedside table so I pick it up. _Les Misérables,_ one of the copies Simon bought for me back in September. The one in English.

This will be the second time I've restarted it. The first was because I loathe reading on mobile. The second - _now_ \- is because I've not had much time to read since term began & everything I _did_ read is fuzzy in my head. Best just to start over.

_Be it true or false, what is said about men often has as much influence upon their lives, and especially upon their destinies, as what they do._

Well, that rings true, doesn't it?

I read that same sentence over three times.

I think, _What about things left_ unsaid?

_His father, intending him to inherit his place, had contracted a marriage for him at the early age of eighteen or twenty…_

I read that line through a few times, too, then close the book & set it back on the table.

I toss & turn until I fall asleep.

 

>>>

 

I recognize the forest immediately. It’s the one outside our house in Hampshire. And it’s on fire.

The Simon in my dream is wreathed in flame.

I try to put him out, but my lungs are burning with smoke & I can’t cast a spell. And I can’t get too close, because if I do, I’ll burn, too. My face is so hot, & I’m crying, & I don’t know whether it’s from the smoke or because I’ve lost hope.

I don’t get to find out, because there’s a _push_ on my shoulder & someone calling _Baz Baz Baz_ & even as I’m trying to cast I wake up.

When I see Mordelia stood next to my bed, it scares the hell out of me.

“ _What are you doing_?” I snap. She recoils as if I’ve slapped her.

“You were.” She looks like she’s about to cry, damn it all. “I heard you. You sounded sad.”

“Crowley’s sake, don’t _cry_ , Mordelia-,” but that’s the wrong thing to say. I’ve no idea how to talk to children.

It’s then I realize I wasn’t only crying in my dream. My cheeks are wet, & the tears have run down my neck onto my pillow.

I sit up & drag the sleeve of my jumper across one cheek, then the other. I say, “Um,” because Mordelia’s just stood there sniffling & staring at her feet. “Mordelia. It’s alright. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.” I reach out & pat her awkwardly on the shoulder. That opens the floodgates.

She crawls into my bed - into my _lap_ \- & drapes her arms around my shoulders. She’s so _small_ . I feel like I could break her. (I could, if I wanted to.)(I don’t, not _really_.)

She buries her face in my shoulder & I notice her cheeks are conspicuously _not wet._ Someone’s been practicing how to get what she wants from her daddy, I think. “Mordelia,” I say. She sniffles into my jumper. I roll my eyes.

I must look a numpty, sat here in my bed with my little sister draped over me. I’m pointedly not hugging her back.

“Mordelia,” I say again. “Good show, but it won’t work on me.” She just tightens her arms around my neck. I sigh & put my arms around her because I feel like an idiot keeping them at my sides. I feel her smile against my neck.

“You’re cold,” she says.

“Yeah.”

She pulls her head back & looks at me. “Your _skin’s_ cold. You should light up your fireplace.” I look over. The fire's gone out since I've been asleep. It’s just embers, now.

“Might do,” I say. She’s still looking at me, right in my eyes. It feels like she’s staring into my soul. (If I have one.) The level of eye contact makes me uncomfortable so I look away.

“You had a bad dream,” she says.

There’s no use denying it, not after she apparently heard me moaning in my sleep & saw me crying. “I did.”

“Was it scary?”

“A bit.”

“When I have a bad dream, I tell Mum about it. She says talking about it helps.” She's looking at me like she's _expecting_ something.

“Well,” I say. “I don’t fancy talking about it.”

She looks like she’s going to argue, but then she leans in & whispers, “Mum & Daddy told me something, a secret. They said I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone. Except you. Daddy told me not to, anyway.”

Apparently eight is the age at which it’s appropriate to be let it on the family’s biggest bloody secret. I don’t particularly want to indulge her, but maybe if I do she’ll leave me alone so I can go back to sleep. “What’s that?” I say.

She narrows her eyes at me. “They _said_ ,” she looks back towards the door, then back at me, then whispers so softly I can barely hear, “They said you’re a _vampire_.” Then she starts giggling.

Well, I’m glad someone finds the tragedy that is my life _amusing._

“What’s so funny?” I say.

“I don’t believe them,” she says. “You don’t even sparkle.”

“Pardon?”

My mobile starts to buzz from my bedside table just then. There’s only one person who’d be calling me in the middle of the night.

I reach over to grab it - Mordelia still hanging off me - & see Simon’s face on the screen.

“Simon?” I say.

“Hey, love,” he says. “I didn’t think you’d be awake.” His voice sounds gravelly, either from sleep or crying. Or both. Fuck.

“Hold on, love,” I say, then to Mordelia, “Will you give me a moment?”

“Who’s that? Is it your _boyfriend_?”

In my ear, I hear, “Is that Mordelia?”

“ _Go_ ,” I tell her. She rolls her eyes & extricates all her lanky little girl limbs from around my body. She stops at my open door & looks back at me. “ _Go_ ,” I say again. She rolls her eyes at me. “And shut the door.” She does.

“What’s your sister doing in your room? It’s after three in the morning,” Simon says.

“Is it?” I look at the time on my mobile. Just after 3:30.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Did you have a nightmare?”

“Yeah,” he says again.

He's worked through a lot of this with his therapist, & he's so much better than he was. He doesn't look like he's somewhere else all the time. Nights though, that's when the demons come.

We're both still plagued with them - nightmares - but not so much when we sleep in the same bed. Not so much when we're together.

Simon dreams about the Mage a lot, the twat. Sometimes I wish Simon hadn't killed him so I could do it myself. (I almost did. Simon stopped me.)

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.

“Not really. Just.” He takes a deep breath & I hear him let it out through his mouth. “Just talk to me. Tell me something _good._ ”

I say, “I love you.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I love you, too.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Piano._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short update today, y'all.

**Tuesday, 20th December, 2016**

 

**FIONA**

I swear to God, Tasha, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t love your son.

You may have scraped bottom when you married a Grimm, but at least something good came out of it.

It’s not that I don’t _like_ Malcolm. He’s just...a bit of a tit, isn’t he? And Daphne’s lovely, really. I’ve never heard anyone say a single bad word against her. You’d like her. She isn’t fierce like you, but you’d like her. She loves Basil, anyway, and that’s enough for me. She came into this family knowing what he is, what happened to him, and she’s tried to be a mother to him. I know she has.

I suppose Daphne’s fierce in her own way.

I know Basil doesn’t want to be here. He’s…

Well, the whole thing’s complicated, isn’t it? Can you see us, from where you are? That’d make things easier. I wouldn’t have to explain it all to you. Sometimes I like to think you can. Others I wish you can’t. You’d be ashamed of the mess I’ve become.

I found your piano last night. And I bloody well keep seeing you at it, don’t I?

I don’t think Malcolm’s been back here since before all the shit hit the fan. You didn’t come here often, did you? But of course you’d have a piano here. I remember how much you loved to play. It used to drive me mad when we were kids, before you actually got good at it. Jesus Christ, you were awful at first, weren’t you? And that drove _you_ mad. You weren’t _used_ to being awful at things.

Malcolm’s dealt with all his problems by hiding them away. I imagine that’s why it’s still here, the piano. Hidden away in the north, in the snow. I’ve no idea what he did with the one in Hampshire, after. Probably it’s hidden away somewhere, too. Not that it matters now. Our magic’s gone from that place. Your magic.

I’m sat outside on the veranda, staring into the trees. It snowed overnight. Everything's so beautiful and peaceful and white out here. It's a bit of a cruel joke.

I’ve a fag in one hand and a flask in the other, and it’s times like these I hope you can’t see me.

It’s barely ten in the morning, Tasha, and I’m already day drinking.

I’ve raided the drinks cupboard. It’s going to be a long bloody week.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Music_

**Tuesday, 20th December, 2016**

 

**BAZ**

 

When I wake up, it feels like I haven’t slept at all.

Simon and I talked for an hour or so last night, and I waited for him to fall back asleep before I ended the call. It took just as long for me to fall asleep afterwards. I was still shaken from my dream, heavy and sad. And then I was angry. Angry that my parents told Mordelia about me without bothering to ask me first.

Not that it matters.

I could stay in bed, sleep until the afternoon. But someone’s likely to come looking for me if I do, so I get up.

Daphne’s at the stove when I come into the kitchen. Mordelia’s stood next to her, helping her crack eggs. She’s making a mess, honestly, but I suppose there’s only one way to learn. The twins are sat at the kitchen table. I think they’re coloring. They start giggling when they notice me. Crowley, I hope that's a short-lived phase. 

I hear, “ _BA!_ ” before a mass plows into my leg. It startles me, mostly because I’m bloody exhausted, but also because it’s jarring to be screamed at this early in the morning. When I look down, Oliver’s staring up at me and smiling, his arms wrapped around the back of one of my knees.

My lips quirk up against my better judgement. He’s a cute kid, my brother.

“Morning, Basil,” Daphne says. She’s smiling at me, too, until I look up at her. “You look tired. Did you not sleep well?”

Mordelia looks at me, and for a moment I’m completely sure she’s going to say something about my nightmare. Or about Simon’s phone call.

It surprises me when she doesn’t.

“Just the new bed,” I say. “It’ll take some getting used to.”

“I hope it’s comfortable for you,” Daphne says, brow furrowed. Daphne wastes too much of her energy on unwarranted concern, in my opinion. Or maybe that’s just what mothers do.

“It’ll be fine; thank you, Mother,” I say.

Mordelia says, “Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

Daphne smiles at her. “That’s a good idea, isn’t it? You should relax, Baz,” she says. She’s smiling again. “You can sleep as long as you’d like. Take a nap. Enjoy your holiday.”

I almost say no.

I say, “Might do.” That’s when I remember I still have Simon’s biscuits up in my room. “Where’s Father?”

“Oh, he’s working. You know your Father.” I don’t know if _that’s_ strictly accurate, but I suppose I’m not surprised.

“Right.” The smell of the eggs reminds me that I’m hungry, so I decide to try and have a nap later. I wonder where Fiona is. “Do you need help with anything?”

“Oh, no thank you, love,” Daphne says. That is _definitely_ directed at me. I don’t acknowledge it. “Kettle’s on; help yourself. Or we have coffee. Breakfast will be ready soon.”

Breakfast is good, if not a little uncomfortable. I forgot my wand in my room before I came down here, so I have to leave the table to go get it and spell my fangs invisible. I grab Simon’s biscuit tin while I’m upstairs, even though I’m still irritated with my parents for what they told Mordelia. (It’s admittedly difficult to stay irritated with Daphne for long. I’ll just be irritated with my father, then.)

“What’s this?” Daphne says when I hand her the tin.

“They’re from Simon,” I say. I’d be blushing if I had any blood in me.

“From your _boyfriend_?” Mordelia says from the table. I have to wonder who gave her the idea that Simon’s my boyfriend. Certainly not Father. Daphne, maybe.

I raise an eyebrow at my sister. She doesn’t look away from me.

“That’s very sweet.” Daphne smiles and sets the tin on the counter. “Tell him we said thank you. We can have some with tea later.”

Mordelia keeps looking at me like she’s holding onto a secret, like the two of us have an _understanding_ of some sort _._ It’s unnerving, especially on an eight-year-old.

Daphne divides her attention between making small-talk with me and trying to keep my brother from throwing scrambled eggs at the wall. I end up distracting him so she can actually eat more than one bite of her breakfast in one go. He’s still hopeless at saying my name properly.

I help Daphne clean up even though she insists against it, and then I decide that having a nap sounds lovely.

I’m about to head upstairs to my room when I hear it, single piano notes coming from further down the corridor. I follow the sound until I’m standing in a doorway of what might be a drawing room. There’s a fireplace and sofas, a few bookshelves filled with books. There's a piano set against the wall next to a window. Fiona's sat at it, pressing the same few keys I heard out in the corridor. They don’t sound like there’s any purpose in them.

She stops playing and looks over at me. “It’s hers. Tasha’s.”

Of course it is.

I step into the room and sit next to her at the piano bench. It’s a simple piano - by our family’s standards, anyway - which isn’t to say that it’s _cheap._ It’s a deep sort of reddish-brown - mahogany, maybe - with flowers carved into the music rack. Roses.

_My rosebud boy._

I can't remember my mother ever calling me that, but that doesn't mean anything. I can't remember _much_ , from before. And Simon says that's what she called me, when she found him in our tower.

“This was the one she kept at Watford, I think,” Fiona says. “The piano.”

At Watford. I lived with my mother while she was headmistress, and I don't remember a piano. Do I?

I can't remember much from before.

Well. At least it didn't end up in the Mage's dirty hands.

I wonder why this is the first time I've seen it.

My breath catches when I look up. There are decorations on top of the piano, ceramics and leather-bound books. And a photo.

A photo of my mother and me.

We're sitting at this bench, and she's holding me in her lap, and I'm _laughing_ as she kisses my cheek. Our skin is reddish gold and ruddy with our laughter. It's still a shock to see myself like that, even though I still have that photo Simon and I found last year.

I reach up and take the frame in my hands. I'm older in this photo than I am in the other. It can't be too long before…

Fiona watches me as I take it out of the frame, as I turn it over.

_Tasha & Basil, August 2002. _

A few days then. A week, maybe.

She doesn't look like a woman with days left to live.

Fiona isn’t saying anything about it, but that doesn’t bother me. What _could_ she say, really? Fiona’s strong, always has been, but what happened to my mother nearly broke her.

I swallow the lump in my throat and slide the photo back into its frame, set it back on top of the piano. I wonder what it's doing here, the photo. I wonder why I've never seen it.

No. I _know_ why.

The same reason I never saw a photo of myself before the change, not until that day in the Mage's office - my _mother’s_ office. The same reason I never knew my mother played the piano. The same reason I had to wait until my father was out of the bloody house to give Daphne a tin of biscuits. The same reason no one _asked_ me before spreading my secret around like it's nothing.

The blood I have in me boils. I tamp it down and take a deep breath, in through my nose and out through my mouth.

“Father and Daphne told Mordelia,” I say. I don't look at Fiona, even though I can feel her looking at me. I stare at those carved roses instead. “About me. Apparently they didn’t think to ask me first.”

“That doesn’t sound like Daphne,” she says.

Come to think of it, it _doesn’t._ I suppose she might’ve thought it was best, to avoid bringing it up with me. Maybe that’s what she’s been led to believe.

“I can’t think of a _reason_ for your sister to need to know, can you?” Fiona says.

I hadn’t thought of _that,_ either. Maybe she’s just gotten to that age where it’s harder to get away with telling white lies. Maybe my parents just wanted to head off all the inevitable questions. _Why does Baz go outside in the dark every night? Why doesn’t Baz ever eat with us at the table? Why is Baz always cold?_ Why does Baz actually look like living death?

Maybe it was some sort of fucked up lesson about stereotyping. _Now Mordelia, not_ all _vampires are the very picture of evil incarnate._

I can’t even imagine my father saying the word _vampire._

I look over at Fiona, finally. I say, “She said she didn’t believe them because I don’t _sparkle_ , whatever the fuck that means.”

Fiona rolls her eyes. “Christ. It’s from some Normal book, Basil. Your father and Daphne sure as shit wouldn’t have let her read it, I don’t think. Who knows where she picked that up.” I suppose Fiona’s right about that. My parents would never willingly give my sister a book about vampires, even a Normal one. That would hit entirely too close to home. (The Normals really do have some fascinating ideas about vampires, but _sparkling_? Crowley’s sake.)

It’s then I notice Fiona’s eyes are bloodshot. “Everything alright?” I say.

“Fine,” she says, and she gets up from the bench. I follow her. “It just takes me back, seeing this thing.” For a moment, I think she’s going to talk about it, about my mother and the piano. I can't decide if I want her to.

She doesn’t.

She says, “I’m bloody starving,” and stops in the doorway. “You coming?”

“No,” I say, and I look over my shoulder at the piano. “No, I think I’ll stay here a bit.”

She gives me a sad smile before she leaves.

I take another deep breath before I turn around and walk back towards my mother's piano.

When I sit at the piano bench, I wonder if she would’ve taught me to play, had she lived. I pick up the photo of us and look at her face.

I trace her mouth with my fingers - what I can see of it, anyway. It’s full like mine, and the same shape, I think. She's wearing a deep red lipstick, and when I look close I can see a lip-shaped stain on my cheek. And another. There's one at my temple, too.

She kissed Simon there and told him it was for me.

I don't know if it makes me want to smile or cry.

I wonder what she was _like._

Fiona's told me stories about her. Even my father's told me some. But I don't _know_ her.

I set the photo down again, but I keep looking at her face. I try not to look at mine, but we're so close together, and I look so happy to have her there with me.

When I sit back at the piano bench, I can remember her.

I remember sitting next to her and trying to copy her movements on the keys. I remember her taking my hands in hers and laying my fingers out over them. It’s a reach for a five-year-old’s hands.

It isn’t a reach now.

I press my thumb into the middle C. It’s quiet and loud all at once.

I don’t know _how_ to play, but I know music, and I know the black keys are flats and sharps. I press my index into the next white key, my middle finger into the next. _D, E, F, G._

I wonder what kind of music she liked to play. Classical? Opera? 90s hits? Or did she just _play_?

I get back up and kneel in front of the bench, run my fingers along the edges of the wood. The top’s a lid, and I lift it gingerly. It smells like my mother, the wood inside. Like clove and black tea, paper and ink. I breathe it in, the scent of her, and wonder if she actually kept clove drops and tea in her piano bench. It’d be a strange thing to do, but I suppose we all have our eccentricities.

There’s sheet music in here, some old and yellow, some crisp and white. Booklets of music that were clearly well-used, some not.

She had a fondness for musicals, apparently. _The Phantom of the Opera_ . A few I’ve never heard of before. She has the music from _Sweeney Todd_ , which is... _amusing_ in a macabre sort of way. She has…

_Les Misérables._

It’s one she played a lot; the cover’s bent and torn and the spine cracks easily when I let the booklet fall open in my hands. It opens to “I Dreamed a Dream” _._ A beautiful song, and sad. Clearly she thought so, too. I feel myself smiling, just a little.

I fold the book closed and set it next to me on the floor. I think I’ll take it home with me. Maybe I can teach myself to play.

I’m about to close the lid when I see them, a bundle of envelopes peeking out from beneath the stacks of music. I don’t know what I’m thinking, or what I’m expecting, but I reach into the bench and pull them out. The bundle’s tied together with twine, and my breath catches when I see the writing on the first.

It’s just two words.

_Tyrannus Basilton._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy so turns out I'm awful at fact-checking (which I already sort of knew, but it keeps happening to me at an alarming pace.) _Simon_ says the Grimms have moved to "one of their other houses up north" at the end of _Carry On._ Baz tells us they're living in their hunting lodge in Oxford. GOOD JOB, ME. 
> 
> Sooo basically let's just pretend they've moved again, mmkay? I mean, maybe a hunting lodge just wasn't very hospitable. Or something.
> 
> Also I'm sure pretty much everyone knows _I Dreamed a Dream_ , but here's [one of my favorite versions](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_7zZuBQs0bE) anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

**Tuesday, 20th December, 2016**

 

**BAZ**

 

I take the letters up to my room.

_My letters._

I lock the door, take off my shoes, and crawl back into bed. I'm still wearing my jeans.

I hold my bundle of letters in my hands and stare at my name written there on the first envelope in long, elegant script. I know it's my mother's hand even though I don't _know_ my mother's hand.

 _My mother wrote these letters for_ me.

I'm not sure what I'm feeling.

I'm shaking, and my arms and legs are covered with gooseflesh. I get up and light a fire in the grate even though I know it's not from the cold.

When I get back into bed, I pick up my letters and think about how she held them, once. I touch my name on the envelope lightly as if I can still smudge the ink after all these years.

_Tyrannus Basilton._

She named me.

I untie the twine with shaking fingers and pull the first letter from the pile. I set the rest down carefully on the bedside table.

When I turn the envelope in my hands, I find it sealed with dark green wax and stamped with the Watford W. I run my thumb over the mark and think of my mother pouring the wax. I wonder if she thought of the practice as archaic. Or maybe she loved it. She loved Watford.

I can't put it back this way if I open it.

I swallow.

And then I break the seal.

When I unfold the letter, a photo falls from the folds, a Polaroid. It’s my mother, pregnant with me, smiling big at the camera. _Beaming._ She’s wearing her professor’s robes, and I think she’s standing in her office. _December 1996_ is written in the blank space below the photo, in the same hand as my name on the envelope.

I wonder who held the camera. My father? Fiona, maybe.

I slip the photo back into the envelope and set it on the bedside table with the others. Then I begin to read.

 

_20th December, 1996_

 

_Hello, Little Puff._

_You know, we talk all the time, you and me, but this is the first I've ever written to you._

_Today is the last day of the term. The students are excited to go home to their families. I'll be going home to your father in a few days myself._

_I was sitting here at my desk when I thought to write to you._

_Forgive me; I've never done this before. I've just had the thought that maybe I shouldn't give this to you till your graduation. Perhaps I should start over. Or maybe you'll like this, seeing me stumble over my words. You're probably not used to it._

_I won't start over, then._

_So. Hello, my son. My beautiful boy. My Tyrannus Basilton._

_It's a mouthful, isn't it?_

_I hope you don't hate me for it. It's traditional. (Tyrannus is, anyway. I picked Basilton because I like it.)_

_Your father doesn't like Tyrannus, but I suspect that might just be because he and your grandfather didn't get on._

_Well. We'll have a nickname for you, I'm sure, but I don't know what you're like yet. You could be a Ty, like my father. (That might drive your father mad, if I'm honest, but he'll deal. He loves you no matter what you're called.) Or maybe you're a Basil. Or maybe a Baz._

_I'm calling you Little Puff for now._

_I think you like that; you've just kicked me. It's your favorite pastime lately. I've told your father I wouldn't be surprised if you grew into a footballer. (He told me he thinks you're just kicking the way a baby should, but I think he'd be thrilled if you played football. I also told him he shouldn't presume. He's not the one getting kicked in the ribs. He has no idea how strong you are.)_

_You're growing so fast, love, and speaking of kicking - you make a right racket in my belly while I'm trying to sleep. I've got a school to run, you know._

_Well. I wouldn't trade those kicks for anything._

_I can feel your fire burning inside me. You're my little flame. My little puff of smoke._

_Your father and I can't wait to meet you. He visits us when he can, and whenever he's here he spends most of his time talking to you._

_Your auntie Fiona is excited to meet you too, Little Puff. She's still in school here, and an absolute nightmare. I swear to Crowley she and her little band of misfits are going to send me into early labor before the year's out._

_I have to tell you - I already know she's going to spoil you rotten. She brought me a gift for you the other day, to take home with us after you're born. A little stuffed Paddington Bear. (Your aunt Fiona puts on this tough exterior - she thinks she's punk, whatever that means - but she loved Paddington when we were little. I remember reading the books to her when she was a baby.)_

_You're to be born in March, but I can't help but think we'll meet you earlier than that. We Pitches are an impatient lot, to be sure._

_Just a few more months, and then you'll be out here with me. I'm afraid, you know. I've never been a mother before. But I love you, and that's stronger than the fear._

_I don't know what else to say, other than I love you. I love you more than yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. Just when I think I can't love you any more than I already do, well. I do. And I haven't even met you yet._

_Happy Christmas, Little Puff. I'll be seeing you before too long._

 

_Love,_

_Your Mum_

 

 _Mum._ Did I call her that? I can't remember.

I look at her words on the pieces of paper in my hands. They don't seem real.

They seem like the realest thing in the world.

I'm crying, and I don't know when I started, and I'm just glad I'm lying down. That I haven't stained my mother's letter.

I turn on my side, pull the blankets tighter around me, and look at my mother’s words. Her warm hand moved across this paper, twenty years ago today. She called me Little Puff even then. And she loved me. And Fiona was a menace. ( _That_ makes me laugh. Of _course_ she was a bloody menace.)

My eyes wander to the bundle of letters on the bedside table.

I want to read them all now, every single one. But if I do that…

I'll run out of letters entirely too fast.

I take one deep breath, in through my nose and out through my mouth, and then I start the first one over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've always wondered - and I use the term "always" loosely here because I literally read _Carry On_ for the first time this February - why Natasha called Baz "Little Puff." One day it came to me that maybe she means that he's a little puff of smoke. Because...fire. Pitches. You know. IDK what else it could be; I guess it doesn't _have_ to have meaning but I like to know reasoning behind things so. There's mine.
> 
> ALSO - Please let me know if you're liking this! I am feeling... _super uncomfortable_ while writing it & reading/editing it, & I'm not sure if it's because it's actually just straight-up bad or if it's because the subject matter is out of my comfort zone/I'm in over my head. I'm hoping it's the latter because that's, like, much more doable. I'm fine with feeling uncomfortable the whole time I'm writing this if it ends up being good, lol.
> 
> Also I've decided to make Fiona + giving Baz Paddingtons a running theme, since she gave him that massive one the Christmas after he was bitten.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so very much for your wonderful comments on the last chapter! I really wasn't expecting that & I just want you to know how much I appreciate it.

**Tuesday, 20th December, 2016**

 

**BAZ**

 

I wake up to my mobile ringing from the bedside table, but the noise stops as soon as I roll in its direction.

I'm just drifting off when it starts to ring again.

My hand brushes a pile of papers when I reach out to answer it.

_My letters._

The ringing goes quiet again. I'd leave it be and go back to sleep if it weren't for the probability of  Simon being on the other end.

I sit up and reach for my mobile, careful not to scatter the letters. Two missed calls from **Simon bloody Snow.** I call him back.

“Hey, love,” he says. “Thought I missed you.” Crowley, just the sound of his voice has a lump rising in my throat, my heart beating faster. Still a bloody cliché if ever there was one.

“Almost,” I say. “I was taking a nap. Didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Oh.” He sighs. “My fault, yeah?” He sounds too upset for me to taunt him, so I don't. I’m already feeling awful for leaving him alone this time of year. The first Christmas since the last.

 _He isn’t alone_ , I think. _He has Bunce._

But she didn’t go through _all_ the horror with him last Christmas, even if she was there at the end. I know Simon has therapy scheduled this week, too, and that always helps. But therapy can’t take away the pain.

 _I_ can’t take away the pain. But I know what it’s like. I could hold him through it.

I give him the best I can for now. “No, love. Not your fault.”

“It's just. You haven't answered my texts today, so I wanted to make sure everything was alright.”

I think about telling him about the piano, about the letters. All of it. Simon and I don't keep secrets from each other, not anymore, but I've only had them for a few hours. My mother wrote them for _me_. It's ours, hers and mine. I'm not ready to share that yet, not even with Simon. And I’m sure he’s got enough on his mind as it is.  

“I'm alright,” I say. “Just tired.”

He sighs. “Alright, just. Well. _Tell_ me if you're not, yeah?”

He knows I don't really want to be here. He knows it's painful.

“I will,” I say. “I promise.”

“Did they like the biscuits?” He sounds anxious about that, to be sure. Simon didn't lose his desire to please people when he lost his magic.

“We've not had them yet,” I say. “Daphne wanted to save them for tea.”

“You haven't had tea?”

“No. What time is it?”

“Dunno. Nearly dinnertime, now.”

How long have I been sleeping?

I check the time on my mobile. Fuck, it _is_ nearly dinnertime. My stomach growls, as if on cue.

“Apparently I've gone and slept the day away,” I say. My father will be home soon, if he isn't already. I'd best make an appearance. “I'm sorry, love. I need to go.”

“Oh.” He sounds disappointed, and it bloody well breaks my heart.

“What're you and Bunce doing?” I say, because I want to make sure she's there with him.

“Making biscuits soon. Watching telly. You know.”

Simon's told me that he and Bunce and Wellbelove always got together over Christmas to make biscuits.

I really don't want to think about Wellbelove right now. Not after she showed up at ours the other day.

Well. Simon and Bunce's. Bloody embarrassing, all of it.

There's a knock at the door.

“Simon,” I whisper. “I have to go.”

“Yeah, alright.”

“ _Simon._ ”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“Love you, too,” he says.

Hanging up is harder than it should be.

There's another knock at the door. “Basil?” It's Daphne.

I glance at my letters before I tuck them into the bedside table drawer. The first is still in the bed with me. I'm not sure how many times I read it before I fell asleep. I fold it and slip it carefully in with the rest.

I get up and smooth out my clothes as best I can. Then I open the door.

Daphne smiles at me. “Dinner will be ready soon. Did you get some sleep?”

“Yeah. I didn't mean to sleep so late.”

“That's your body telling you that you need it.” She reaches out and squeezes my bicep. “It's your holiday. Rest.”

I smile at her because I feel like I should. “I will.”

 

>>>

 

We eat dinner without Father.

It’s more of the same, really. Mordelia looking at me like she sees right through me. The twins giggling whenever I look their way. My little brother playing with his food and mispronouncing my name. Fiona’s eyes saying _Where the fuck were you all day and why’d you leave me alone in this house?_ I suppose that’s new.

Father still isn't home, even now that we’ve finished eating. Something about staying late at the office and being short-staffed for the holidays. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little relieved. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little disappointed.

I sigh and pull out my mobile. Nothing new from Simon. I text him first this time.

 

 **Baz (8:02 pm):** I'd rather be with you. I just want you to know that. You know that, don't you?

 **Simon bloody Snow (8:03 pm):** yeah

 

I'm sat at my mother's piano again when the next message comes through. (I've a mind to practice my violin in here. It's been some time since I've _really_ had a chance to play.)

 

 **Simon bloody Snow (8:05 pm):** look, I'm not trying to make you feel bad about being there. don't. you should spend time with your family

 

He's right, of course (I let him be right now and again). And it's not that I don't want to see my family. I _do_ , even with all the tension. But I belong in London, with Simon. Especially now.

 

 **Baz (8:06 pm):** You are my family, Snow.

 **Simon bloody Snow (8:07 pm):** fuck, I love you

 **Baz (8:07 pm):** I love you.

 

 _Sweet Morgana._ It's barely been two days since I've seen him and I'm practically pining. I've been in too bloody deep from the start.

When my phone vibrates again, I'm expecting Simon. My eyebrow quirks out of habit when I see it's Penelope Bunce.

 

 **Bunce (8:09 pm):** What the fuck did you just say to Simon, Basil? I just walked in on him crying in the kitchen and he told me he was chopping onions.

 **Bunce (8:10 pm):** THERE AREN'T ANY ONIONS BAZ

 

Crowley, I can't even get away from Bunce's wrath from across the bloody country. I roll my eyes and consider _not_ telling her, but I don't want her worried about Simon, either. I send her a screenshot of our last few texts.

 

 **Bunce (8:12 pm):** Nicks and Slick, you two make me sick.

 **Baz (8:12 pm):** Look at that, Bunce. You're a poet and you didn't even know it.

 **Bunce (8:13 pm):** Surely you can do better than that, Basil. Love's turned you soft.

 **Baz (8:14 pm):** You know, you're the second person to tell me so in as many days.

 **Baz (8:14 pm):** Is he alright?

 **Bunce (8:15 pm):** So far, so good. I'll keep you posted.

 **Baz (8:15 pm):** Penelope?

 **Bunce (8:15 pm):**?

 **Baz (8:16 pm):** Thank you. For taking care of Simon.

 **Bunce (8:16 pm):** Always.

 

Thank Crowley for Penelope Bunce.

I look up when I sense Daphne in the doorway. It’s annoying, sometimes, being able to smell and hear better than other people. (Daphne’s always smelled nice; she’s dabbed rose oil onto her wrists for as long as I can remember.) (I wonder if people ever find me unsettling. If _she_ ever has.)

She walks over to me, gestures at the bench. “May I?” she says. I nod, and she sits. “I’ve a little free time; the kids are in bed.”

I wonder what she’s doing in here, then, spending her free time with me. The children are definitely a full-time job; if it were me I think I’d want some peace and quiet after a long day.

She sets one small hand on my knee, squeezes gently. I can feel the warmth of her palm through my jeans. I wonder if she can feel how cold I am. I need to drink.

“I wanted to make sure you’re alright,” she says. “You seem uncomfortable.”

Oh, fucking hell. Maybe I _have_ gone soft; I can't even manage to keep up an air of boredom, apparently.

I think about asking her about Mordelia, about why she and Father didn’t ask me before they told my sister what I am.

I don't.

I think about my father, about how he _knows_ about Simon and me but hasn't said a word. I think about how he isn't even _here_ to say a word.

“I’m alright,” I say, probably unconvincingly. She won't push, I don't think.

She squeezes my knee again. I think about laying my palm on top of hers.

I don’t.

I check the time on my mobile for something to do with my hands instead. There's a flash of a smile, of blue eyes and bronze curls.

My wallpaper’s a photo of us - Simon and me. We’re both smiling in this one. (I almost used the one of him smiling and me rolling my eyes, but I picked this one in a moment of weakness.) It’s one of the first photos Simon took on the camera I got for him. We ate in the park after he took this, and had a good long snog. It was a lovely day.

Daphne moves in closer. “Is that the two of you?” she says. “On your mobile?”

I turn my head to look at my stepmother. Of course she knows what Simon looks like; he spent time in her house last Christmas. She’s just being polite. And I’m not about to lie to her; there’s no point. She already _knows._ I’m just glad I don’t have enough blood in me to blush. “Yeah,” I say.

Her hand slips gently off my knee. “May I?” She turns it palm-up and waits, like I can still refuse. I hand her my mobile and just hope that Simon doesn’t send me anything particularly awkward while she has hold of it.

I watch her as she takes in the photo. She’s smiling. “Well, he’s certainly very handsome.” Her eyes flick up to mine as she hands my mobile back to me. “And you look very happy together. I’m glad.”

I feel my lips quirking despite myself. “We are,” I say. Fuck, she’s looking right at me. One benefit of vampirism: Not having to wear my complete and utter embarrassment on my face for all the world to see. Others include being able to sweep Simon Snow off his feet whenever I bloody well feel like it and also... _well._

Daphne’s hand is warm as it presses against my back. “You know, Basil, you could have brought him with,” she says.

 _That_ takes me by surprise. “Oh,” I say, like a fucking numpty. _Oh._ Surely I can do better than _that._ I keep on, “No, he and I talked about it. He didn’t want to intrude.”

I think, _How much do I tell her?_ I almost don’t mention what happened last year, but it’ll feel like there’s a giant elephant in the room if I don’t. “He feels guilty,” I say. “For what happened at the house in Hampshire.” My mobile buzzes in my hand, as if on cue. I tighten my grip around it, but I don’t look.

Daphne furrows her brow. “Surely he doesn’t take the blame for that.”

 _Surely he doesn’t take the blame for that?_ Well, she might be half-right, at least now. Simon’s worked through a lot in therapy, and he _knows_ it wasn’t his fault. But just because he knows the truth doesn’t mean that others aren’t quick to judge. It doesn't mean he can't still _feel_ responsible.

“It’s. Well,” I start, and I’m not completely sure what to say. This doesn’t happen to me often. “It's complicated,” I say. “That’s why he made you the biscuits. To apologize.”

Daphne gives me a sad sort of smile. “There’s nothing to apologize for. But that was very sweet of him.” She takes a breath. “He's not alone for Christmas, is he?”

I think of what I said last year. _It's not like he has anywhere else to go at Christmas._ My heart clenches in my chest. I can be an extra-special arsehole when I want to be, I don't deny it.

“No,” I say. “No, he's staying with the Bunces. He's making their Christmas dinner.”

Daphne smiles again, warmer this time, and with less pity. “Good.” Her palm slips from my back and she takes my hand, the one not holding my mobile. She's soft, and warm, and I try not to flinch, try not to think about how cold my hand must feel in hers.

“Baz,” she says, and it always sounds strange when she calls me that. Not Basilton. Not Basil. Just _Baz._ “I want you to know that he’s welcome here.” I look her in the eye. They’re chocolate brown, and soft, and _warm._ It’s terribly uncomfortable. “He’s welcome wherever you are,” she says, and she squeezes my hand.

I’ve no idea what to say.

I think, for a moment, that Daphne Grimm may be too good for this world.

I swallow and slip my hand from hers as slow as I can, just so she knows I’m not trying to get away. (Even though I am.)

I stand up, pocket my mobile. “Thank you,” I say, then, “I need to…” _drink._

She seems to understand, anyway. She gets up, too, then reaches up to kiss me on the cheek even though I basically just admitted to being thirsty. “Goodnight, Basil,” she says.

“Goodnight, Mother,” I say, then I turn to go.

 

>>>

 

When I check my mobile in the woods, Simon’s message is there on the screen.

 

 **Simon bloody Snow (8:21 pm):** you’re my family too

 

I grab some of his biscuits from the tin before I go up to bed.

**Author's Note:**

> So, here we go.
> 
> I had to take some liberties - I decided Yorkshire was the place "up north" the Grimms moved to after the mess with the Humdrum in Hampshire. It took me a ridiculously long time to decide on that.
> 
> I've also named Baz's siblings since we have no canon names for them yet. Apparently I decided that Daphne likes 4-syllable girl names ended in -lia. *shrug*
> 
>  
> 
> [working playlist](https://music.amazon.com/user-playlists/d355c3dbe5384c158eba18d98ae3866bsune?ref=dm_sh_PjpndrTEJDp7nXT1MmE4kX7Ls)
> 
>  
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr](https://thehoneyedhufflepuff.tumblr.com/) if you like dumb jokes & want to see me embarrass myself on a regular basis.


End file.
